


The Tale of the Silver-Armed Knight

by BeaArthurPendragon



Series: Hide You Away Beneath My Shield [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Blanket Permission, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Dom Steve Rogers, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Sassy Bucky Barnes, Sub Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22023427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaArthurPendragon/pseuds/BeaArthurPendragon
Summary: After being exiled from Ireland, Steven Grant is quietly making a new life for himself in York crafting the finest armor in all of England. One late December afternoon, a legendary knight visits his smithy to commission armor with very specific requirements.Mr. Grant has a few requirements of his own.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Hide You Away Beneath My Shield [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756333
Comments: 59
Kudos: 395





	The Tale of the Silver-Armed Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my Lifeboat crew for brainstorming and cheerleading. Beta'd by the lovely [RavenclawWitch18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenclawWitch18/pseuds/RavenclawWitch18).
> 
> I went to the Wikipedia School of Armory and everything I know about early 15th century England I learned from Shakespeare's Henry V.

**York, 1418**

The Hibernian’s armory lay near the top of the Smith’s Lane, not far from the south entrance to the castle. It was a place of privilege, built of stone with its own forge in the back, for the Hibernian was the best armorer in the north of England—perhaps the whole of England, when he was feeling bold. It didn’t make him wealthy, but he slept every night on a featherbed in a well-appointed apartment above the shop and had meat with every meal, and more than one merchant in town had a daughter they wanted to marry off to him.

But the Hibernian was not looking for a wife.

What he was looking for, at least at that moment, was a tiny pin that he’d stupidly dropped among the drifts of steel filings around his feet that he needed, which he needed to secure the left side of the visor on the helm he was making.

Which is why he was bent over, arse in the air and nose to the floor, when the small brass bell nailed to the door jingled softly and a gust of raw December damp swirled into the smithy.

He swore softly in Irish and stood, hoping he would remember where he had already searched when he had time to look for the damned thing again.

“I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?”

“No,” the Hibernian lied, wiping his hands clean on the leather apron. The man, dark haired and uncommonly tall and well-built, was dressed respectably in black with a cloak of good blue wool draped over his left shoulder and secured with a finely worked silver clasp. A man with some coin to spend, the Hibernian thought, eyeing the black brocade tunic and tight woollen hose, but less than his usual customers. “How can I help you?”

“I need new armor,” the man said.

“A whole suit?” the Hibernian clarified. “That will cost you dear.”

The man nodded. “It will be worth it,” he said, drawing his cloak aside to reveal a rather stiffly held left arm bent at the elbow. He paused to draw the black leather glove off, revealing a finely chased hand made of highly polished steel. “As you can see,” he said, blue-gray eyes meeting the Hibernian’s blue-green, simmering with challenge, “I have certain requirements.”

“This is _ceremonial_ armor, then?” the Hibernian asked after a startled half-moment, because surely no man was foolhardy enough to enter battle with an undefended left side.

“No,” the man said, his spine stiffening. “Has my name not reached York yet?”

The Hibernian let out an anxious laugh. “Dear Lord,” he said, more to himself than to the man. “You’re real.”

He’d heard of the silver-armed knight, of course—the stories of the vigilante had been swirling around the pubs for more than a year. But so were tales of dragons and women in lakes handing out magical swords. He knew—that is, he thought he knew—better than to believe any of it.

“Sir James Barnes,” the man said. “My father was Lord George of Shelby, a shire to the south.” He held out his hand to shake.

“Steven Grant,” the Hibernian said. He clasped Sir James’ hand in a warrior’s grip, thumb and fingers circling Sir James’ wrist as James did the same to him. Steven could feel the hard, ropy muscles of his arm and the calluses on his palm, proof that Sir James had handled plenty of swords in his time.

“Your name is highly spoken of, Mr. Grant.”

“I should hope so,” Steven said. “Without land or title, a name is all a man has, really.”

“Indeed,” Sir James said, unsmiling.

He did not let go of Steven’s arm nor did Steven release his.

“How long have you fought one-handed?” Steven asked.

“Three years. An archer got lucky at Harfleur,” Sir James said. “The wound festered in prison.”

“In prison? You fought for the French, then?”

Sir James nodded. “I was fostered to the Dauphin’s cousin as a boy, in the hopes that I might be a match for his niece. When war came, I had lived so long among them it seemed only natural to fight on my future wife’s side,” he said, his face darkening with grief as his voice drifted into little more than a murmur. “My lady was a favorite of Princess Catherine, whom the King wed, and it was her intercession that kept me from the gallows. But though my neck was saved, my lands and title were forfeit, and so my lady’s father pursued a more profitable match.” The knight’s face resolved itself into a look of grim determination. “Now that I am healed, I must make my own name anew—and, I hope, some amends for my treason.”

“But why in this way? Why not find some other employment and use the money to purchase masses or give to the poor?”

“I found myself too old to apprentice to a new trade, too young to consign myself to a monastery, and cursed with too much pride to depend upon my sister’s husband’s charity any longer,” James said, simply. Then, more quickly than Steven could mark, he twisted Steven’s arm and muscled him to his knees, holding him hard to the ground. “But I can still fight.”

Then, just as quickly, he released Steven’s arm, stood, and held his hand up in a gesture of surrender, to show that he’d meant no real harm.

Steven rocked back on his heels and looked up at the man for an appraising moment before standing up and brushing off his knees. The knight was stronger and quicker than any knight Steven had ever seen, it was true, but he would by necessity fight differently, too, and before he could even think about designing new armor for him, he needed to see how.

He nodded toward the door to the backyard he shared with the swordsmith next door, where the forge burned and a few chickens pecked. “Come with me.”

Outside, Steven took two blank swords from the swordsmith’s rack beneath the shed where they waited their turn on the sharpening stone, and tossed one to James. As he expected, James caught it easily, twirling it skillfully to change his grip to one more appropriate for its intended purpose, testing its weight and balance with a few well-practiced swipes.

“How do you protect yourself now?”

“I have a suit of heavy mail,” Sir James said. “And a breastplate and helm. It does well enough in single combat but not in a melee.”

Steven nodded. He circled around to face him, and without warning, lunged in to knock James’ blade aside and touch the tip lightly to the folds of his cloak at his throat.

James stepped away from the sword tip and smiled, and Steven knew from the flash in his eyes that he’d anticipated this, that he’d let Steven land the point. He leaned the sword against the fence as he removed his cloak and draped it over the rail. Steven took note the sequential nature of the movement, realizing in the moment that he could not afford to take anything for granted. He would have to redesign everything for the one-armed knight, if he took the job, so that he could buckle, clasp, hook—even just reach—every part together with only his right hand. He would need a custom arms belt, a custom scabbard. He would need a gauntlet, but how he would get it on by himself, Steven would have to puzzle over.

If he took the job.

“Disarm me,” Steven said when James took up his weapon again, and then smiled a challenge. “Or try.”

“I’ll go easy on you,” James said.

“I won’t,” Steven said, and attacked.

James’ eyebrows raised in delight at the prospect of a real fight, for the eight years Steven had served as the earl’s squire had taught him early on how to handle a blade. The steel was good, besides, and even blunt, these swords could deal considerable damage.

The steel rang like bells as they fought, round and round the yard. James was clever at keeping Steven too busy dodging his blade to get close enough to thrust, and his right arm was strong enough that he could beat Steven back hard against the fence even without a two-handed swing available to him. He was graceful and quick and moved as fluidly as a wolf running down swift prey. Steven had expected the steel arm to prove cumbersome and was surprised to see how well it helped him keep his balance, how skillfully he used it as a shield in one moment and a club in the next. It was cleverly designed, he thought as he was forced out of his stance to dodge a blow from the metal fist. Whoever had made it had put a great deal of thought into its use.

But the only part of it he could control was the shoulder, and sometimes even that was not enough to protect his left side, Steven noted—especially during a backhand parry, where the twisting movement he made to push Steven’s blade away from its target caused his steel arm to swing back and expose his ribs entirely. The third or fourth time he did it, Steven took advantage by quickly transferring his sword to his left hand and stepping into the parry while James was still twisting so he could punch him hard on the ribs.

“You’re dead,” he said. “If I had a good dagger, I’d have it through your mail and into your heart before your arm stopped swinging.”

James stepped back and let the tip of his blade drop. He was in excellent condition—he was barely breathing hard—but he gave Steven a serious nod. He’d already thought of this. “I thought perhaps reinforcing the breastplate on the left side and extending the flap of the pauldron, like so, to keep the arm from swinging too much—”

“That would help, but it’s the buckles on the cuirass that worry me. A smart man would slash them loose and pull your breastplate away completely,” Steven said, and James’ grim nod told him that he’d already mulled that, too. “I’ll have to think about that.”

James met his eyes again, his unhappy glower melting into something nearing optimism. The sun was already nearly gone and any whisper of heat the day had once had was long gone, and Steven was not certain it was just the exercise that warmed him just now. “So you’ll take the commission, then.”

“I’ll take it only if I can think of a way to do it. I don’t steal dead men’s coin.”

James unhooked the coin purse from his belt and tossed it to Steven. “If you value your good name as much as you say, then I’ll trust you to return this if you decide you’re not up to the challenge.”

Steven laughed and shook his head. “Very well,” he said, tucking the purse into his own belt and returning the swords to the rack. “Come back inside so we can discuss your requirements.”

Back indoors, the warmth of the fire and their exercise made the smithy feel hot and close, and Steven pulled his jacket off as James lay his cloak across a chair.

“How tall are you?” Steven asked. “Two yards?”

“Near enough,” James said. “Between twelve and thirteen stone, I think, though I haven’t jumped on a miller’s scale since I was a boy.” He grinned with an impish gleam in his eyes, and Steven laughed softly. Sir James had to be closer to 30 than 25, Steve judged, but there was still a boyishness about him that neither war nor suffering had stolen from him.

“Twelve and a half by my eye,” Steven said, gesturing to a low wooden box near the hearth. “May I measure you now?”

James nodded and took his place upon the box.

“It’s not unlike tailoring,” he explained as he measured James’ right arm. “I’d wager this is the first time you’ve had it custom made.”

James hummed in agreement. “What gave it away?”

“This callus, here,” Steven said, pressing a spot of hard tissue on James’s right shoulder. “The edge of your breastplate must have rubbed you bloody till the scar built up. It was made for a smaller man, wasn’t it?”

“Most men are smaller than me,” James said. “Except you.”

“Healthy living and Irish spite,” Steven said, then patted James’ arm. “Hold your arm up over your head, please.”

James did as he was told and gave Steven a wry smile as he reached around James’ chest and back to measure its circumference. The embrace-like maneuver this required brought Steven’s nose perilously close to his neck, permitting him an illicit taste of musk and leather and lavender—the scent of a man who bathed rather more frequently than most and had money for decent soap besides. As he did, he could feel James’ breath change, and as he drew the twine across his chest he could swear he felt the man’s heart quicken.

Steven swallowed as his heart quickened in reply.

“Where did you learn how to fight?” James asked, as though having a stranger reach round his body was the most normal thing in the world.

“I was a squire for an Irish lord for some years,” Steven said, moving to measure his waist next. “Though my mother was not pleased for me to follow in my father’s footsteps as a man-at-arms, for my father died in battle just before I was born.”

“I take it your mother won the argument, then?” James asked.

Steven hummed, neither yes nor no, and busied himself with measuring the thickest part of James’ thigh, batting away an inconvenient appreciation for the hard ripple of muscle he could feel beneath the tight woolen hose.

“Why, I dare say there’s a tale there,” James said. “I dare say your mother had nothing to do with it at all.”

“Everyone has tales to tell,” Steven murmured, patting the inside of James’ ankle. “Put your feet a bit more apart so I can measure your inner leg,” he prompted. “Don’t want your cuisses to chafe your balls.”

James snorted and did as he was asked. Steven pressed the end of the twine against the inside of his knee. “I am going to reach up now, to where your leg joins your body,” he said. “It will only take a moment.”

“If my balls are at stake, you may tarry as long as you like,” James said blithely.

“Very well,” Steven said with a soft laugh, drawing the twine up hard against his thigh till he reached James’ groin, trying not to flush too deeply when he felt James’ cock harden against the back of his hand.

“That reaction is not unusual,” Steven said, clearing his throat and pointedly marking the last figure down on the paper so he would have some excuse not to meet his eyes. “Sometimes the body doesn’t realize that the hand doesn’t belong to a lass.”

“Indeed,” James said, and Steven realized he was not flustered in the least. “And sometimes it simply prefers it that way.”

Steven swallowed hard, a cold bloom of panic spreading over him as he attempted to process what he’d just heard. It had been a very long time since anyone had implied that about him. Since anyone had known. He laughed softly to soothe his nerves and then, curiosity pushing the words from his mouth faster than he could arrest them, “Do you not prefer the hands of lasses?”

James glanced at the ceiling and let out a low laugh, before looking back at Steven, blue-gray eyes meeting blue-green. “No,” he said. “And I do not think you do, either.”

Steven did not answer the implied question that hung between them like a hot coal fallen on dry leaves, for every fiber of his being screamed that this was a trap. “What makes you think that?”

“The way you just responded to my words,” James said, eyes glittering. “For if I were wrong you’d have punched me on the spot.”

“Maybe I’m not in the habit of striking paying customers.”

“Mr. Grant, not a quarter of an hour ago you left a bruise on my ribs that will last a month,” Sir James said evenly. “I am not mistaken.”

It wasn’t a question.

Steven held his gaze for a long moment, then drew the purse from his belt and jingled it lightly in his hand. “So we do not misunderstand each other,” he said. “This only buys you a suit of armor.”

“If I wanted a whore I’d go to the Black Widow Tavern,” James said.

“Then what _do_ you want, Sir James?” Steve asked, an unexpectedly certain calm descending over him.

“I’ve seen the way you handle a blade,” the knight said, his eyes locking on Steven’s again. “I want to find out what you can do with your sword.”

That boyishness again, Steven thought, feeling the decision make itself. He crossed to the front door, threw the latch, and lowered the shutter on the window.

“There,” he said. “Now we can speak more plainly.”

“I do not wish to speak,” Sir James said, stepping off the box. “I prefer to be spoken to.”

“Lucky for you, we Irish are born with the gift of gab,” he said with a low laugh, and crossed the room in three long steps. He cradled the knight’s face in his hands, studying the sweet, delicious curve of his lips for a moment before kissing him.

As he kissed, he began to back James up toward the stairs until his back was hard against the bannister. A fine sweat had broken out across his skin, and he could feel his breath go shallow as his desire bloomed. He met James’ eyes and wordlessly glanced up the stairs in invitation. James smiled against his mouth and nodded.

It was even warmer in the apartment; enough to know that the gooseflesh Steven observed along the knight’s pale neck had nothing to do with the winter chill. “Wait there,” he said, moving about the room to light candles. Beeswax—a gift of Lord Stark, and one for which he was grateful, for the reek of tallow was poorly suited to the present task.

“Will you take anything to drink? I have ale and mead,” Steven asked, then fixed the knight with an uncompromising look. “Though I daresay you would prefer different refreshment instead.”

Sir James smiled and bowed extravagantly. “I am at your service,” he said, and as he rose, he blessed Steven with a magnetic smile.

“Very well. Undress,” Steven said, crossing to the kitchen board below the shuttered window and pouring himself a half-cup of mead. “You may leave your things on the chair by the fire.”

The knight nodded.

Steven perched against the kitchen board to sip his drink as he watched Sir James slowly shuck his garments. There was nothing ostentatious or silly about it—just delicious, purposeful slowness that made Steven’s cock very, very interested in what lay beneath. First boots then belt then tunic then hose, until all that remained were his linen shirt and his undergarments. The leather harness securing the knight’s steel arm to his body lay atop his shirt, and his fingers paused over the buckle as his eyes flicked toward Steven.

“That is your decision,” Steven said quickly. “Of course.”

James nodded and took a seat near the fire so he could rest his arm upon his knee as the loosened the buckles of the harness. Again, Steven could not help but admire the craftsmanship that had gone into it; the clever leather saddle that secured the arm to his shoulder and the soft straps that wound round his chest and over his right shoulder. He had never seen anything like it.

Nor had he seen anyone like Sir James. He stood as he lifted his arm away and placed it on the table, and then in one smooth motion drew his shirt over his head and dropped it on the pile of clothes on the chair. He was magnificently built—he was of the same height as Steven, similarly broad-shouldered and well-muscled, but leaner, with the kind of undulating strength Steven recognized among those accustomed to wearing armor.

Like every knight, his body bore the scars of his profession, the slices and jabs and calluses, and of course the interrupted arm, but beyond that his skin was smooth, his chest lightly downed with dark hair that Steven wanted nothing more than to drag his tongue through. All that remained were the short white linen braies hitched about his waist, finely woven and nearly sheer, and well fitted enough that the folds could not hide the knight’s interest, heavy and hardening between his legs. These, at last, he untied and let fall, stepping lightly out of them and kicking them aside.

He was unembarrassed by his nakedness; he did not cover himself with his hand nor did he seem particularly concerned with what Steven thought of the stump of his left arm, as others might be. He wore his confidence like a pair of old boots—the eternal privilege of the handsome and the rich, Steven supposed. And yet he could not shake his memory of the dark look on the knight’s face when he confessed to his treason, the desperate regret in his eyes.

A complicated man, indeed.

But even complicated men have uncomplicated needs, and Sir James’ was growing stiffer the longer he stood there.

Steven took another sip of mead and studied the knight’s cock. Like the rest of him, it was large but not overly so, well-formed and pleasing to his eye and beginning to rise away from his balls.

“Touch yourself,” Steven said. “Not too hard.”

Sir James grinned and began to stroke himself with slow, gentle tugs, and as he did, Steven set the mead cup down and walked a slow circle around him, observing the tiny shift of his hips as he pulled, the way the muscles of his back and shoulder rippled lightly as he moved his arm, the way his chest rose and fell as he breathed, the way his eyelids relaxed into an attitude of lazy concentration. He was half smiling, his lips slightly parted, and Steven could see the tip of his tongue beginning to dart against his teeth in search of greater sensation.

“Stop,” Steven said, and James made an impatient little noise and removed his hand. His breath was high and light; he was excited now, eager, wanting. He held Steven’s gaze with a wry half-smile; he was enjoying this, enjoying the reversal of their roles, enjoying the act of deference to tradesman—an Irishman, at that.

Steven came up close behind the knight, pressing the rough wool of his tunic against James’ back, pressing his own budding erection against the cleft of his ass. He wrapped his arms around James’ body, his left hand toying with a nipple and his right hand circling James’ cock. He began to stroke him, lightly, slowly, knowing it was sweet torture, knowing the knight needed more sensation, much more, before he could gain any relief. He dropped little nibbling kisses into the curve of James’ neck, used his tongue to toy with James’ earlobe. He felt the knight’s jaw relax even further, was delighted when James impatiently turned his head to kiss him, sucking hungrily at his lips and reaching back to press Steven even closer.

“You’re a lively one,” Steven murmured, gently biting James’ lower lip.

“Harder,” James mumbled, “I need more.”

“I know you do,” Steven said, pressing a kiss to the back of James’ neck, and the knight let out a playfully exasperated whine.

Steven stopped what he was doing and placed his hands on James’ shoulders, gently pressing down. James gave a low laugh and complied, sinking down to his knees and resting back on his heels.

As he did, Steven circled back around to face him, unbuckling his belt as he did. James knelt and watched patiently as Steven shed his clothes and tossed them aside, before turning to face him again.

Steven’s cock was already thick and eager for use; he played with it lightly as he watched James wait, that deliciously insouciant smile teasing about the corners of his lips. James began to play with himself in response—lightly and slowly, just enough to keep himself ready—and licked his lips obscenely.

“Your sword wants whetting, sir,” the knight said, nodding toward Steven’s engorgement. Steven let out a low laugh and stepped forward to allow James to take his cock into his mouth.

“Not too hard,” Steven said, feeling his own breath go light. “I’ve a mind to spill myself another way.”

James smiled and hummed against his cock, the vibrations sending sweet thrills up Steven’s back. He reached down and played with the knight’s hair as he sucked, twining his fingers around the soft curls and dragging them out, concentrating on the gentle springing sensation they made as they dropped free.

James was a wizard with his tongue, Steven observed, and with his hand, for he could grasp the base of Steven’s cock with his forefinger and thumb and was long-fingered enough and dexterous enough to gather his balls with his remaining three digits, flooding him with enough sensation to buckle his knees.

He curled his fingers more tightly into James’ hair—not enough to hurt him but to stop him—and then withdrew himself and held out his hand to help James to his feet.

James did not require his help but he gladly accepted the courtesy anyway, rising easily to his feet and darting in to plant a sloppy kiss on Steven’s mouth. He was standing so close that their cocks brushed together as he did, and Steven felt his breath hitch with pleasure.

“Wait there,” he said, hearing his own voice rumble lower, as he reached for the pot of sweet salve he used to soothe his burns—and other things as well. He scooped a fingerful out for himself and offered some to James. “Prepare yourself,” he said.

Eyes locked on one another, Steven slicked up his cock as James did the same to his ass. He was having fun with it, too—biting his lip and sighing with pleasure as he fingered himself.

“You like that,” Steven said, gently stroking himself as he watched James dally at his task.

“It is my favorite feeling in the world,” James said, with a calm seriousness that took Steven’s breath away. “God help me, but it is.”

“Then I shall deny you no longer,” Steven said, planting a soft kiss to his mouth before turning him toward the wall.

As James braced himself on his arm and spread his legs, Steven ran his hands up and down James’ back and sides and ass, luxuriating in the hard muscle, the soft thin layer of fat that lay above it. He dragged a finger down between his buttocks and teased his hole, slick from James’ ministrations and pulsing in anticipation.

He moved his hands to James’ hips, firmly grasping them, and pressed himself up hard against his back as he worked his cock in between his cheeks. He kissed James’ shoulder and began to slowly rub himself against the knight’s cleft, and James clenched down tight to give him the friction he sought.

“That’s a good man,” Steven murmured, dropping little kisses along the curve of James’ neck. “Just like that.”

As he thrusted, he took James’ cock in his slicked-up hand and began to stroke, keeping time with his own movements so their pleasure could move as one. Steven thrusted and stroked and thrusted and stroked until he could feel his own need surpass what James’ buttocks could provide; he began to push himself up against James’ hole, nuzzling the knight’s neck as he breathed into the pressure, relaxing centimeter by centimeter until Steven was fully admitted inside him.

“Tell me when you are ready for more,” Steven murmured, kissing the corner of James’ jaw.

“I have been ready since I walked in your door,” James said breathlessly.

Steven laughed softly and began to thrust. Again, he worked James’ cock as he did, enjoying the disorienting sensation that James’ cock had become his; it was as if his pleasure had doubled, and he thrust harder and harder, feeling James’ hips jerk and his breath hitch as Steven finally reached the deep source of pleasure that lay within every man.

James’ sighs became gasps and his gasps became moans; for Steven’s part, he was in the habit of taking his pleasure quietly, but not even he had the discipline to keep his voice and his breath wholly separated, and soon his grunts and James’ moans began to blend together as Steven drove himself deeper, deeper, deeper into James’ body until he felt himself spasm with release.

“Oh God,” James exhaled, and spilled himself too; Steve could feel his seed surge beneath his hand, pouring over them both.

Steven collapsed against James’ back as they both sagged toward the wall, sticky with sweat and shivering as the thrill of their shared climax began to drain away.

“You have done me in, Hibernian,” Sir James sighed as Steven drew himself out.

“It was gladly done,” Steven murmured, squeezing his shoulder before moving to his wash basin and taking a couple of rags and a cake of soap down from the shelf above it.

“There is enough water for us both,” he said, tossing James a rag. “Though I’m afraid I didn’t have the forewarning to heat it.”

“Next time you shall come to my house,” James said, wincing as he dragged the cold, soapy rag between his buttocks. “I keep a cauldron the coals.”

“Next time?” Steven asked with a soft laugh.

“Why not?” James asked. “You obviously enjoyed yourself.”

“Nothing good comes from wanting impossible things,” Steven said. “And yet I fear you may tempt me to do just that.”

James tossed the rag in the laundry basket and began to dress. “Is this why you had to leave Ireland?” he asked.

“You are perceptive,” Steven said, reaching for his own clothes. “There was an archer in my lord’s company. We—grew careless.”

James nodded gravely. “You must have been young.”

“Not so young. I was sixteen. He was seventeen. But foolish enough.”

“Love often makes us so.”

“It was not love,” Steven said. “Friendship and lust, perhaps, but not love.”

“I wanted to love my intended wife,” James said. “But we must all live according to our nature, I suppose.”

“Well, my nature got me relieved of both my lord’s service and my name,” Steven said instead, trying not to sound as bitter as he felt about it. Then, impulsively: “My last name is Rogers, you see, not Grant. I changed it when I came to England.”

“You have made a new name, then,” Sir James said, brightening slightly. “That gives me some measure of hope that I may, too.”

Steven finished buttoning his tunic and then crossed to his kitchen board, taking a second cup down from the shelf. He topped off his cup of mead and poured a second, handing it to the knight.

“To new beginnings,” he toasted.

“Yes,” James said. “To new beginnings for us both.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on my knees, licking my lips and waiting for you to feed me delicious comments.
> 
> Come find me on the [bird app](https://twitter.com/PendragonBea) and the [tits-free](https://beaarthurpendragon.tumblr.com/) app.


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